


Just My Type

by werewolvesandarrows (nerdy_farm_girl)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Future Fic, M/M, Mutual Pining, That is all, implied scott/kira - Freeform, stiles freaks out about derek shaving, this is ridic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 20:25:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4276812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdy_farm_girl/pseuds/werewolvesandarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, he’s fully come to terms with his giant, no good, all-encompassing crush on Derek Hale. He’s cool with it, honestly. It’s part of his life now, and generally Derek’s presence is just kind of expected, and he totally deals with it. Because Derek… with Cora still in Brazil or something and Lydia away at college, there’s no one around to constantly hound him about his appearance, and he ends up looking like a fucking mountain man. He lets his hair grow and his beard gets all long and uneven and his eyebrows can probably support a family of barn swallows. And oh boy does it make things easier for Stiles. It’s not like Derek looks bad all scruffy and unkempt. Stiles is pretty sure he could grow a mullet or do dreads and he would still be smokin’ hot. BUT Stiles always prepares himself before seeing Derek. Gets all calm and cool and collected so he isn’t leaking arousal and shit all over the place.<br/>But he was not expecting this BULL SHIT.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just My Type

**Author's Note:**

> This is me trying to express my feeling over Hoechlin walking around looking like [this](http://werewolvesandarrows.tumblr.com/post/123072817052/itsmelesley-when-you-realize-hoechlin-is-a). I CAN'T EVEN BREATHE OKAY.
> 
> Um, this is actually pretty silly and it hasn't been betaed or anything, and there's an obnoxious amount of italics and capslocking, and I apologize ahead of time.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Stiles is late. It’s not like this is something new. He’s always late, but only if whatever it is he’s supposed to be doing or where ever he’s supposed to be is like unimportant. There’s been way too many life or death situations happening to him over the past six years, and he’s pretty sure he’s earned the right to be late to the lame stuff. Especially since he _just_ got home from school (he’d literally walked out of his last exam and straight to the Jeep), and he wanted to hang out with his pops. Although Dad had been kind of weird and basically kicked him out of the house by saying, “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Stiles had looked up at him over his half eaten bag of Cheetos and glared. To which Dad’s only response was to say, “Say hi to Derek for me.” So Stiles had licked the cheese dust off his fingers, wiped his hands on his jeans, and _dragged_ himself back out to the Jeep. He has a working theory that his dad is dating someone, and there’s a high probability that that someone is Mama McCall, and he really needs to have a discussion with Scott about this. They have spy equipment from their thirteenth birthdays. It is totally going to be used. (He’s ignoring the whole ‘say hi to Derek’ thing. Because seriously. What the fuck was that?)

But anyways, he’s dragging himself up the front steps of the McCall House, kind of dreading this whole thing because he’s _late_ now, and the whole pack is here already, and he’s going to make a scene. As much as he acts like he enjoys attention… He just doesn’t. It’s like a coping mechanism or something. Not that it should matter with this bunch of assholes anyways. With that thought in mind, Stiles kind of just barges on in there, heading for his favorite arm chair that better fucking be open or heads are going to roll.

“Yo Scott,” He starts, striding across the living room. “Do you think it’s possible that…” He trails off, right foot half way to the ground. Something was wrong with this picture. Liam and Mason are on the loveseat, playing some kind of ridiculous hand slapping game. Scott’s got Kira on his lap, with Malia perched on the armrest of the chair they’re in like a fucking hawk or something. All normal. Lydia’s on one end of the couch, smirking at him, which while disconcerting is still normal. And then Derek… “What is going on?” Stiles finally drops his foot, stepping closer and bending slightly to just kind of study Derek.

This is bad.

Everything is bad.

HE WAS NOT PREPARED FOR THIS FUCKING BULL SHIT OKAY. Today WAS NOT the day to feel like he was fucking sixteen again experiencing awkward boners for grumpy older werewolves.

The thing is, he’s fully come to terms with his giant, no good, all-encompassing crush on Derek Hale. He’s cool with it, honestly. It’s part of his life now, and generally Derek’s presence is just kind of expected, and he totally deals with it. Because Derek… with Cora still in Brazil or something and Lydia away at college, there’s no one around to constantly hound him about his appearance, and he ends up looking like a fucking mountain man. He lets his hair grow and his beard gets all long and uneven and his eyebrows can probably support a family of barn swallows. And oh boy does it make things easier for Stiles. It’s not like Derek looks _bad_ all scruffy and unkempt. Stiles is pretty sure he could grow a mullet or do dreads and he would still be smokin’ hot. BUT Stiles always prepares himself before seeing Derek. Gets all calm and cool and collected so he isn’t leaking arousal and shit all over the place.

But he was not expecting this BULL SHIT.

“You said it looked good,” Derek actually has the nerve to _pout_ , one hand stroking across the barely there five o’clock shadow on his cheeks. Stiles hates his life. Seriously. He would take battling evil little gnomes or omega werewolves over this any day.

“Der, you look fucking hot.” Lydia assures him, still smirking, and Stiles realizes she _knows_ what is happening to him right now. She is evil and manipulative and Stiles _hates_ her. “Just shut up about it.” Stiles pulls himself away from Derek and Lydia to sink into his arm chair. And stare.

Because apparently Derek thinks it’s okay to just shave his beard and trim his hair and tame his fucking eyebrows and wear a damn faded Saints hat and walk around looking like a fucking douche bag frat boy.

The _real_ issue here is that Stiles has a type. Well, a type other than beautiful, scary and unattainable (see: Lydia Martin and Derek Hale). When it comes to the ladies, he likes ‘em kind of hippy-ish, with long hair and flowing skirts and no bras and a propensity for getting busy out in nature. (What? He has a thing for fucking up against trees. He blames Malia. Or maybe Derek. Not that he and Derek ever _did_ anything like that. But he does have a couple of fantasies that involve Mr. Grumpster and a big ass tree.) _Anyways_. As for the guys… it’s no secret on campus that Stiles Stilinski has hooked up with at least one guy in ⅔ of the frats. Which… there’s only six frats on campus, but still. He’s got a serious thing for preppy guys in snapbacks and sweatpants and tank tops with Greek letters across the front. And here fucking Derek sits, looking like a god damn wet dream, just casually _ruining his life_.

“Why is this happening to me?” Stiles groans and covers his eyes, glaring through his fingers when Lydia _snorts_. So rude. And _very_ un-lady like.

“You and Derek are going undercover.” Scott says cheerily, seemingly completely oblivious to the pain that Stiles is currently experiencing. Which Stiles _knows_ he’s not. Because last summer he _may_ have gotten drunk with Lydia, had to have Scott come to their rescue, and then proceeded to sloppily confess his undying, soul crushing love for Derek Hale. Scott likes to think he’s funny. Stiles _strongly_ disagrees.

“What.” This was not even a question. It did not deserve infliction.

“You guys are going to check out the end of exams party at the ABO house at BHU,” Scott continues, apparently choosing to _ignore_ Stiles’ distress. Per usual.

“Why us? Squirt looks more like the type and way less work than dragging Hale out of his library.” Yes. Derek’s a fucking librarian now. And yes, Stiles has a serious librarian kink too. Something about getting busy in the stacks just _does it_ for him. (He is fully aware that he probably simply has a Derek kink but is fully prepared to just _ignore_ the implications of that, okay?).

“I’m bigger than you now Stiles, stop calling me Squirt!” Liam whines, flipping Stiles the bird when he winks at him.

“Because, Liam wants to rush.” Scott explains. “We can’t have anyone go in alone, and you’re the closest thing to frat looking guys we got.” Stiles frowns. That is completely untrue. First of all, Scott is just as much the frat type as Stiles is. Probably more so. He wears pastel tank tops and Timberland boots. Like come on. Plus, showing up to a party with a bunch of girls is so much more effective than two pissed off looking dudes.

“I’m not even _in_ a frat!” He protests, waving his arms for extra emphasis.

“But you’ve been _in_ plenty of frat boys…” Lydia says slyly, tongue peeking out from between her teeth. Stiles can’t help but grin and lean over to give her a high five.

“Hell yeah I have!” When Stiles flops back into his chair, Derek is kind of _glaring_ , which is not nearly as effective with the trimmed down eyebrows. But good god is he pretty, and so fucking distracting and looking like he’s twenty two instead of the usual thirty five.

“... and it’s tonight.” Stiles forces his attention away from Derek and tunes back into Scott. Which. Seriously? Tonight? He had _plans_.

“Tonight? Really?” He slouches back into the chair and crosses his arms. “There’s a full DVR and a bag of Cheetos just calling my name at Casa de Stilinski right now.” As is expected, no one cares. “Well I'll at least need to go home and get ready.” Stiles was not about to go to a party (which translates into an opportunity to get laid) wearing jeans covered in cheese dust and looking kind of greasy.

“I have an outfit for you upstairs.” Lydia says, practically leaping off the couch and dragging him up the stairs, not even giving him the opportunity to protest. “Shower, now.” She orders, shoving him into Scott’s bathroom with absolutely terrifying strength.

“Just so you know,” he yells after her, choosing to ignore the door she slams in his face. “I’m only doing this because I have an opportunity to get laid, NOT because you told me too Lyds!” She doesn’t respond, of course not, so Stiles strips and hops into the shower.

He almost dies when he whips open the curtain a few minutes later and she’s standing there, hands on her hips. “Seriously?” He hisses, grabbing for a towel to wrap around his waist. “There’s this thing called privacy that exists you know.” Lydia just raises an eyebrow in that way that clearly says, _oh please_ , and proceeds to towel him off like a fucking child. He thinks about arguing with her, but it is kind of nice, and he’s so lazy and mostly, he knows how to pick his battles. None of his battles lie with Lydia Martin. That is a fact.

“Arms!” She snaps, and Stiles raises them automatically, frowning as she swipes deodorant onto him. How the hell did she get a hold of _his_ deodorant? He _knows_ that Scott doesn’t use the same brand. After the Underarm Incident of 2009, Scott has avoided it like the plague. Before he can ask, Lydia grabs him by the towel wrapped around his waist and drags him into Scott’s room. And those are definitely clothes out of his closet at home. He knows because he totally left them there because the pants were a little bit too tight and the shirt tended to ride up and Lydia _always_ made him wear them even though he felt like a hussy or something.

“How did you get these?” He turns to Lydia, who has this awful and totally unconvincing look of faux innocence on her face. “What is happening right now?” She shrugs and throws a pair of boxer briefs at him, not even turning away. Stiles narrows his eyes and drops his towel. If she wants to play games, he’ll fucking play.

“Looking good Stilinski,” she smirks, and he hates her just a little bit more. He knows he looks good, he’s got broad shoulders and narrow hips and he’s kept up on his workouts to keep his abs and ass and arms looking good. He pulls on the briefs, snapping the waistband until she glares at him and gives in. “Ugh fine, me and Derek went over to your dad’s earlier and grabbed them for you.” And here was another piece of the puzzle, this had something to do with his dad being all weird earlier and commenting on Derek of all people.

“Oh really,” he grabs the cursed jeans off Scott’s bed. “Did you happen to talk to my dad?”

“He walked in on me and Derek arguing about which pair of jeans your ass looks the best in…” Stiles pauses in attempting to pull the stupid pants up over his ass as a loud crashing noise floats up from downstairs. “Stop eavesdropping Derek.” Lydia look totally unconcerned, toying with a lock of hair with the tiniest of smirks on her face.

Stiles can’t even think right now. Does Derek Hale really have an opinion on his ass? Because that is something that really needs to be addressed, preferably when there isn’t a room full of eavesdropping werewolves only feet away. Stiles could write a dissertation on Derek’s heavenly ass, and if Derek actually felt the same way about _his_ ass, that was clearly important information that Lydia could have passed on fucking ages ago.

“Ah,” the jeans finally slide home, and he buttons and zips them. “That explains my father’s strange behavior.” Lydia tilts her head and smiles, primly handing him his shirt like she knows exactly what’s going on in his head right now. Which would be chaos, to put it simply.

He follows her into the bathroom, narrowing his eyes when Lydia turns the water on in the tub.

“Listen up,” she whispers, pushing him down to sit on the toilet. “They can’t hear over the water all that well. But I’m not supposed to tell you so…” She scoops a glob of some kind of hair glue onto her hands, rubbing it on her fingers and kind of attacking his head. “But Derek Hale has the biggest fucking crush on you, and you better not screw this up.” Stiles just stares. Because really? _Really_? Today had to be the day that Derek decided to show up looking like _that_ and suddenly he’s got the hots for someone like Stiles.

“Am I dreaming? I think I’m dreaming.” He stares at his hands, counting his fingers. There’s only ten.

“If you don’t fucking confess to him tonight, I swear to god I will kill you both.” Lydia hisses, her eyes flashing as she turns the tub off before he can respond. Which is just cruel. She has to know that he might scream right now. Like a very feminine, high pitched screaming noise is going to be coming out of his mouth any second now. Because this, this cannot be real. “Luckily for you,” Lydia grins again, and it’s absolutely terrifying. “I will be accompanying you both.”

Stiles isn’t feeling the least bit lucky.

* * *

 

Clearly, CLEARLY Lydia (and he suspects Scott) did not think this plan through. He has to think Scott is involved, because Lydia usually thinks these things through more, and Scott would never consider just how many people would want to get up in Derek’s grill. Which is happening. Right now. And Stiles fucking hates it.

It’s not like he’s being ignored. He’s had girls and guys all over him all night, but Derek doesn’t even seem to care. And that’s what really pisses him off. For someone who supposedly has a crush, Grumpy Gills isn’t fucking showing it. He’s even smiling at people (it _is_ his fake, flirty smile that Stiles kind of hates) and the party people are eating it up.

Stiles throws back another beer, watching with narrowed eyes as two (TWO!) really hot girls grind up on Derek. Derek’s got his hands on their waists, looking for all the world like he’s in fucking heaven. And Stiles is about ready to give up on whatever lame ass undercover mission was supposed to be happening here and go home. He can call Scott to come pick him up. Derek and Lydia can finish up here. There’s obviously no threat anyways. The Squirt would be fine.

“He’s trying to make you jealous you know.” Lydia sidles up beside him, a cup of what looks like straight vodka but Stiles suspects is water clenched in her hand.

“Oh I dunno,” he pouts, slouching against the wall. “He looks like he’s really enjoying himself out there.” He flinches when Lydia smacks him upside the head.

“Since when does Derek like having strangers all up in his space,” she hisses, leaning in close. “Get out there and fix this!” Stiles isn’t really sure if he loves her or hates her right now. He glances back out at Derek, who on closer inspection, is looking kind of pained.

He can totally do this. Derek supposedly likes him right? In theory, he can just waltz right out there, rescue Derek, drag him outside and have hot sex up against a tree. Right? “Fucking go Stilinski!” Lydia practically growls, pushing him towards the dance floor.

He marches towards Derek, shrugging off the drunken groping, feeling his skin warm when Derek’s fucking gorgeous eyes focus in on him. His heart thumps with every beat of the music, and all he can see his Derek and his hands and his arms and his face and he wants to be the only one Derek touches like that.

“Sorry ladies,” he grimaces at the girls dancing up on Derek while wrapping a hand around Derek’s bicep. “This one’s mine.” He can’t even look at him as he tows him through the crowd, not wanting to see the look on Derek’s face. Stiles is going to attempt to do this whole thing without looking at Derek’s face. He likes to think that he is immune to the Hale Glare, but he’s spent so much time studying Derek that he knows what every twitch of those stupid eyebrows means. The last thing he needs is to analyze Derek’s micro expressions while trying to tell him he’s in love with him. Yeah. No.

They burst out into the backyard, and Stiles realizes that somewhere along the way his hand had slipped down Derek’s arm to grip his hand. So that is a thing that’s happening apparently. He gulps in mouthfuls of the cool winter air in an attempt to get his bearings. Per usual, Derek throws a wrench into his plans and practically throws him up against the house.

“Some things never change, huh Der?” Stiles tries for cavalier, mentally attempting to counter his dick’s Pavlovian response to Derek pushing him around with images of Coach in his underwear. He stares fixedly at Derek’s clean shaven throat, idly wondering how he still manages to loom over him when they are the same height now.

“Stiles.” Derek’s voice is soft, not at all the growly impatience he was expecting. Stiles swallows hard, forcing his eyes to travel up to meet Derek’s while his heart _pounds_ in his chest.  

“Derek.” He parrots, trying his hardest to kind of smirk, or something. It probably looks grotesque but at this point he doesn’t really care. Not with Derek’s thigh shoved between his own and Derek’s stupid face only inches from his.

“Stiles,” he says again, this time his eyes going all soft and one hand coming up to brush across Stiles’ face, leaving a trail of sparks in its wake. Yeah. Stiles is done. He is so fucking done.

So he pushes off the wall and grabs a fistful of Derek’s shirt, crashing their mouths together without any elegance. But God, he’s got Derek’s mouth on his and Derek’s not pushing him away, and it’s fucking AWESOME, okay. And then Derek tilts his face just right, and their lips slot together, and there’s tongues and teeth, and Stiles is almost positive that Derek is letting out these adorable little whines that are simultaneously cute and making his dick twitch in his jeans.

“Fuck Stiles,” Derek growls, sucking hard kisses along his jaw and down his neck. His name seems to be one of the only two words in Derek’s vocabulary at the moment, and for once he doesn’t even care. He _might_ even like it. Just a little bit. Especially when he gets his hands up under Derek’s shirt and down the back of his khakis and Derek just kind of moans his name against his neck.

“I’ve got so many fantasies that start like this dude,” Stiles pants, grabbing two handfuls of Derek’s ass and dragging him closer. “Although for some reason you always seemed a lot more pissed off, I don’t know why but you fucking being all bossy and shit really fucking oomph” Derek slaps a hand over his mouth and glares.

“Stiles, shut up and let me fucking kiss you.” He drops his palm and Stiles grins, his heart jumping when Derek smiles (really smiles) back.

“Oh hell yeah,” he squeezes Derek’s ass. “Some on big guy, debauch me!” Derek shakes his head, but kisses him anyways, his lips soft and warm and fucking intoxicating. “One more thing,” Stiles huffs when Derek goes back to sucking hickeys along his collarbone (which he totally has a kink for. Okay. Everything Derek does probably turns him on, whatever). “Let’s keep the frat boy look for a while, huh?” He feels Derek huff against his throat, his teeth biting at his shoulder.

“Only if you wear these jeans for me every once in a while too.”

Stiles grins and pulls Derek back in for a slow, heady kiss. Yeah, he can totally do that. Just for Derek.


End file.
